


drive!

by sealestial



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3602658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealestial/pseuds/sealestial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is waiting for his car to warm up, Enjolras is running from the police after a protest. They meet when Enjolras jumps into Grantaire's car without warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drive!

**Author's Note:**

> hello! so i just wanna say thank you for taking the time to read this, and acknowledge the fact that this thing wouldn't exist without my two baes tiril and alex.

Grantaire bounced in the driver’s seat of his 1990‘s era station wagon, rubbing his hands together and waiting for the engine to actually _warm up._ If it hadn’t been the coldest night of the year, R would’ve just said fuck it and drove home with his fingers cramping up on the steering wheel. Despite the fact that the hot air that came from the vents in his car smelled vaguely like some stale dead thing, it was still heat, and the last thing he needed tonight was frostbite. Delicate artist’s hands, and all that.

Just as the engine temperature began creeping upward and the unmistakable scent of ‘unidentified dead thing’ became much more than just a whiff, the passenger side door of the station wagon was viciously thrown open. Then a man with blond curls thrown up in a haphazard  bun and a blue eyed gaze that could cut steel was sitting in his car. The guy had a gash across one gloriously defined cheekbone that was bleeding sluggishly, and Grantaire got the vague impression that he’d either just died or was about to.

The golden man, college student? activist? trust fund baby?, took one look at Grantaire (and the inside of Grantaire’s mouth because he may have been gaping) then shouted, “What are you _doing? **Drive!** ”_

It took a few seconds for Grantaire’s brain to realize that his hands were still clasped together. He blinked at them for a moment, before jerking into motion and hastily putting the station wagon in gear. They peeled away from the curb with a screech, probably leaving bits of the tires behind them, and R silently mourned for his bank account. Tires weren’t _cheap_ after all. Maybe if he got lucky, his passenger would help foot the bill.

Speaking of the blond guy, he was currently twisted around in his seat and watching the scenery whiz by through the station wagon’s back window. His curls were falling out of his bun, and the vaguely calm and thoroughly artistic part of Grantaire’s head realized that this guy’s hair complemented his strong jaw _perfectly._

Now was not the time to be thinking about reverently punching the blond guy in the mouth with his own mouth though, because they were currently getting away. From something. The artist wanted to laugh a little hysterically because his _station wagon,_ with its horrible vomit coloured paint job and the psychedelic flowers Jehan had painted on the left side during spring break, was being used as an honest-to-God getaway car.

Grantaire was mostly sure that somewhere, a deity was in stitches over his current situation.

“So, uh, you do this often? The whole ‘jumping in random people’s cars and telling them to drive like it’s a Die Hard movie’ thing? Because I mean shit that’s cool and all, but I think I left half my tires back by the curb and I _really_ have no idea what the fuck I’m driving away from-- so y’know. Gas money would be nice?” On the word ‘nice’, R’s voice accidentally rose an octave. Mostly because he was nervous, and because he was trying to drive at frankly dangerous speeds through crowded Parisian streets, but also definitely because the guy was _looking_ at him.

“No, I don’t ‘do this often’. However the protest turned violent, no thanks to the _police,”_ blond guy’s tone goes poisonous at the mention of the cops, “many of my friends were taken, and I was singled out as a ringleader. After they’d made that assumption, I made a tactical retreat and your car was the closest one I could find that I wouldn’t have to hot wire.”

Grantaire _might_ have been gaping again.

He’d heard about the planned protest from Jehan, but had no idea it’d been happening today. Or that it was about such a sensitive subject that the cops would begin zip-tying people once they got ‘out of line’. Either way-- the protest wasn’t the interesting part of that explanation.

“Where the hell does a guy like _you,”_ Grantaire took one hand off the wheel to vaguely gesture at all of blond guy, “learn to hotwire cars? You look like a high society socialite. Statuesque, blond, handsome enough to make angels weep, the whole package.”

Blond guy narrowed his eyes, and Grantaire was suddenly incredibly grateful for having to keep his eyes on the road. If he looked at the guy, R was pretty sure he’d spontaneously combust.

“Do _you_ often interrogate your passengers?” he snapped, and Grantaire had to grin a little.

“Well no, but most of the people who step foot in my car aren’t fugitives from the law.”

“I’m not a fugitive; I didn’t break any laws.” Blond guy rolled his eyes, but didn’t offer up any more information.

“Alright so you’re not on track to become the world’s next militant activist,” he looked scarily contemplative about that suggestion so Grantaire quickly moved on, “Can I know your name at least? And where ever you want me to drop you off, that’d be helpful too.”

For a few moments the car was filled with tense silence. Grantaire had to swerve around a trash can that’d been sitting upright in the middle of the road, and narrowly avoid a particularly determined Mini Cooper driver when he merged lanes, so it took a while for blond guy to speak again.

“Enjolras. If you could stop at the next bus stop, I’d appreciate it.”

Blond guy, _Enjolras_ (and didn’t that name send shivers down R’s spine), decided that it was a good moment to look him over. That gaze alone was enough to make Grantaire uncomfortably aware of the fact he’d been wearing a ratty red beanie over his unruly black curls, paint-splattered jeans, and a university sweatshirt under his mostly unbuttoned winter coat. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, suddenly becoming incredibly interested in the road ahead. Grantaire knew he wasn’t handsome, his nose was too big and his brows were too thick and his body was too bulky, but having Enjolras sitting next to him drove the point home. Enjolras had a silhouette capable of making Renaissance painters weep with joy, and Grantaire would probably just make them cry outright.

He didn’t say anything else until he pulled the car over in front of one of Paris’ many bus stops.

“I-- Grantaire. I’m Grantaire.” It was belated, and he managed to nearly fuck up saying his own name, but Enjolras actually paused to look back at him before getting out of the car.

“Thank you then, Grantaire.” Enjolras’ lips _almost_ twitched upward into a smile, before he slammed the car door shut behind him and strode towards the little bus stop pavilion like it was his life’s purpose.

Really, it was all Grantaire could do to pull away from the curb, drive for about fifteen minutes, then guide his ancient station wagon into his apartment complex’s parking lot.

After he parked his car, he wound up smacking his forehead against the top of the steering wheel because Enjolras was the most beautiful man he’d ever met and Grantaire was so, _so_ fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> here's my [tumblr](http://dwarvishness.tumblr.com) if you wanna come say hello!


End file.
